


Five Tomorrows

by englandwouldfalljohn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Confused Greg Lestrade, Confused Mycroft Holmes, Dating, Developing Relationship, Emotions are not Mycrofts area, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fixing things, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, He loves his goldfish, Hurt/Comfort, It starts with chicken soup, M/M, Messing it up, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Only when no one is looking, Post-Season/Series 04, Smut, Softcroft is real, This is not his division, but it might be, feelings are hard, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9379157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: Following the events of TFP, Mycroft Holmes has just been released from the hospital. Per the request of his younger brother (he assumes), DI Lestrade has made himself available to assist.  As Mycroft attempts to accept help, he finds that Greg might be available for a bit more, but as his recovery quickly beings to turn him into the Holmes he'd always been, will the good detective be driven away?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the so clever EchoSilverWolf for the constant encouragement, and for keeping the pressure on by updating her own chapters constantly. (You can also thank her for demanding the eventual smut!)
> 
> Rating is for the final chapter - just didn't want anyone getting there and being scandalized. This is my first attempt at Mystrade, please be kind :)

"I'm certain that when he asked you to make sure I was well, this is not what he intended." Mycroft's hooded eyes and pallid skin were a map of where he had been, of the hell he had just traversed. He sat stiffly upright against the cushions piled behind his back. Gold-threaded, decorative, and rough to the touch, they formed a barrier two-deep between the room and the down pillows behind them. He took a deep breath, which would have come across as decisive, were it not for the wince of pain he was unable to hide.

"Two days in hospital is nothing to take lightly," Lestrade chided, standing awkwardly by the bedside, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. "Especially seeing as the doctors wanted to hold you for three."

"Yes, well, thanks to your loyalty to Sherlock and his sudden swelling of brotherly concern, I'm home now." He met Lestrade's eye for a moment, then turned away, lowering his voice. "And I – thank you. For your assistance. It wasn't necessary to see me back."

"Well, no, it wasn't necessary… not even my division, really," Lestrade kicked at the plush carpet. How much money does this bloke have, anyway? His mind flashed to his own modest flat and a pang of embarrassment rang through his chest. He pulled himself back to his full height. It wasn't as though that mattered right now. What were the chances Mycroft Holmes would ever set foot in his flat anyway?

"So, then. Gregory. Will you be going now?"

"Oh. Oh, well, I guess, yeah, if that's – "

"Or…"

"Or?"

"I would hate to put you out of your way, of course. I just thought that since you were already here, perhaps you might," Mycroft shook his head at himself. _What on earth am I doing?_ "Perhaps you might like to stay. For dinner."

"Yeah. Yeah alright." Greg looked over the man in the bed with a professional eye. _He may be the British Government, but at the end of the day –_ "You're just a man, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm a _man_ , what else would you expect me to be?"

Greg chuckled. "Yeah, I'll stay for dinner." He moved quickly toward the bedroom door, throwing the next words over his shoulder before disappearing into the dim hallway. "Don't you move!"

Twenty-eight tedious minutes later, Greg returned bearing a heavy wooden dining tray, complete with carved legs. As he set it down across Mycroft's lap, he swallowed, instantly wondering if he'd overstepped. Two steaming bowls of chicken soup, half a sliced baguette, and two glasses of white wine. _I mean, technically it's chicken, right?_ He'd thought to himself when he finally found the kitchen and was preparing the official meal of recovery.

Mycroft surveyed the spread, parted his lips slightly, then closed them again and reached for a spoon. There was silence until the bowls were half-empty. Greg's refusal to look up even once had allowed him to be studied at close-range: _dilated pupils, tense neck and jaw, almost imperceptible flush to his cheeks. Silver hair, carefully kept. Short, clean, even fingernails. Beginnings of stubble, pattern indicative of shaving daily. Red tint to the corner of the eyes showing weariness not belied in his mannerisms. Steady movements despite obvious emotional discomfort. And he made me chicken soup._

At this final thought, Mycroft's spoon slipped from his hand, splashing noisily into his bowl and causing Greg to jerk his head up in alarm.

"You alright, mate? Here, lemme take that," he grabbed the bowl from Mycroft's hand and replaced it on the tray before any protests could be uttered. "You feeling ok? Should I call a doctor?"

"Gregory, I assure you – " he reached out a hand and clutched at the wrist of the man now dialing a mobile phone. As their eyes locked, Mycroft felt something warm and unfamiliar fill his veins. "I assure you," you continued more calmly, "I am entirely devoid of the need for medical intervention. My hand simply slipped."

Greg looked unconvinced, but indicated his acceptance of the other's words with a slight incline of his head.

"Should I then… I should clear this." He paused, staring down at the long fingers still burning into his wrist. Reluctantly, they released their hold. The DI swallowed loudly, then moved to lift the tray from the bed. The hand fell over his once more.

"I should rather… if you happen to be… available, you're welcome to come back again. Tomorrow."

Greg nodded dumbly, gaze fixed on the sight of pale skin against his more tanned tone. An image flashed through his mind – a much larger expanse of that same light cream, draped across his chest, his arms, his legs… He coughed, certain that one more minute of this and the damn deduction machine sitting before him would know exactly what was barreling unbidden through his mind. Plastering a cheery smile to his face, he hoisted the tray with unnecessary force and made eye contact, solely to prove he had nothing to hide.

"Tomorrow, then. I'll show Mystrade, um _myself_ out. G'night." And with that, Greg nearly ran from the room.

Mycroft smirked. _Poor detective inspector, thinking he could hide that. Well, no matter. Despite his hasty exit, he will return._ He tossed a few of the coarse cushions to the floor – given the events of the past three days, he was entitled to a bit of a mess – then he settled himself comfortably onto goose down and Egyptian cotton. As sleep overtook him, his smirk melted into a smile, and one final thought eased his mind before he went under: tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

Propped wearily against the over-sized mahogany wardrobe, he conceded to himself the frailty of his own body. Not that he had ever fancied himself a particularly fit individual, but he had always liked to think he was capable of withstanding the physical repercussions of the emotional baggage he had stowed away so stealthily all those decades ago. Staring at his suits with a mixture of exhaustion and unprecedented loathing, he wondered again if this was a mistake. Just as he lifted his mobile from the antique bedside table to call off the evening before it was too late, the chime of a new text message echoed through the room.

**Leaving the office in 10. No suits. - Greg**

Mycroft couldn’t fight the soft smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. Was he in fact that predictable to a man he had only met on a handful of occasions? And if so, surely he shouldn’t be this pleased...

* * *

Greg Lestrade sat ramrod straight, anxiety worn plainly on his features. Why in the world anyone would have a priceless-looking oriental rug beneath his dining table was beyond him, and the sheer opulence of the space -  _ a suit of armor in the corner? Really?  _ \- made him uncomfortably aware of every speck of dust on his boots, every loose thread on his shirt, everything that revealed how incredibly ordinary he was.

“Something wrong with the food, Detective Inspector? If it’s not to your liking, I’m sure we can find -”

“No, no… the food’s…” Greg looked over the veritable feast laid before them. He had never pictured Mycroft Holmes cooking, but neither had it occurred to him that the man employed a chef.

“I employ three, actually. One does become bored by the repetition in style otherwise.”

Greg cast an embarrassed glance at his silverware. Real silver, no doubt.  _ I shouldn’t be here… _

Mycroft’s brow furrowed as he studied the DI’s self-conscious expression.  _ Why should he be concerned about the number of staff employed, or the authenticity of the - oh. _

“Detec - Gregory. My apologies. I suppose it was rather…” he struggled to find the correct term, to master the skill of communicating  _ emotion _ . “I should not have -”

“Do we have to eat in here?” Greg met Mycroft’s eyes with a pleading look.

“Well, it is the dining room, which does by definition make it the appropriate - “

“Yeah, right, sorry. Nevermind,” Greg interjected, pushing his food around on his plate.

Mycroft gave an inward sigh. Though he could not elucidate even for himself the reason for his concern over this man’s comfort, he felt it nevertheless.

“I suppose,” he began slowly, failing in his attempt to sound casual, “on second thought, that the smoking room would provide a suitable alternative venue. I can have our plates brought in.” He reached for a small bronze bell at the edge of the table between them, but his action was cut short by tan fingers restraining his wrist.

The DI gasped at his own boldness, withdrawing his hand as blood rushed to his face. “Oh, I’m… I’m sorry. That wasn’t very...um…”

“It’s…” Mycroft exhaled discreetly, refusing to allow himself any further reaction, “...quite alright. I take it, then, that you would prefer this evening to remain just the two of us?”

Greg’s cheeks grew impossibly redder, “I...uh…”

“What I mean to say is,” Mycroft corrected himself, disarmed by his own inability to articulate his thoughts, and the persistent nagging inside his chest which was growing steadily more pronounced, “would you prefer that we carry the food in ourselves and avoid disturbing the staff?”

“Yes,” Greg responded, visibly relieved.  _ Why am I so tense, the man was only asking about the bloody dinner plates… _ He noticed Mycroft’s too-tight grip on the arm of his chair as he stood, and his brain switched gears seamlessly. “I’ll be taking the plates,” he informed the obviously still recovering man, quelling the forthcoming protest with a look of authority, “you can bring the wine.”

Only one person had ever given orders in this house - or anywhere else Mycroft Holmes happened to be - yet as he turned to lead the way down a corridor that might have been lifted complete from a medieval castle, a strange sense of calm wrestled with his unease at the experience. This  _ police officer _ . Something was indeed different about him...

The two men turned into a room swathed entirely in royal blue, damask wallpaper looking as though it might be worth more than Greg’s rent. Setting himself an indifferent expression while attempting to swallow his pride, the DI couldn’t prevent the thought from entering his mind:  _ I bet this git has one of those damn velvet smoking jackets. _

“Now Gregory, you must forgive me,” Mycroft had resumed his usual crisp tone, “but I will not be able to offer you a cigar with your after-dinner drink. The doctor has given me strict instructions, and while I am not customarily one to be bound by such  _ intrusion _ into my habits, I suspect that, on a few counts, he may be right. On the plus side,” he continued, finally cutting into his steak -  _ medium rare, that’s surprising, always thought he’d be one to have it bleeding -  _ “we won’t require smoking jackets this evening.”

Greg giggled quietly into his wine, while Mycroft directed his perplexed look at the potatoes, determined not to be interested.

* * *

They’d been silent for over an hour, brandy glasses in hand, staring intently into the fire. It was electric, Greg had determined that much, and he suspected that the controls were embedded in Mycroft’s armchair, though he could not ascertain quite how or where.  _ Probably has the whole sodding house on remote control. Whole sodding,  _ he yawned, stretching his neck,  _ United Kingdom.  _ He smirked at this own drowsy thoughts and sank deeper into the cushions, realizing that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so relaxed. Until Mycroft coughed.

“What’s wrong? How long have you had that?” he leaned forward, instantly on alert.

“It’s nothing, truly, simply a -” but the rest of his words were lost in a prolonged fit of hacking originating in his chest.

“That is not nothing. When did it start? Does you doctor know?” Greg eyed the man trying to catch his breath - or feigning catching his breath while concocting a plausible response. “Don’t lie to me. I’m not your -” He’d almost said brother, but given what he knew about recent events in the Holmes family, thought better of that particular slight. “I’m not your enemy.”

Mycroft sighed deeply and turned to face the shadows at the far end of the room. The frustratingly insurmountable weakness of his body was impeding the full recovery of his resolve. He had been improving, though of course not quickly enough. Yet here, now, in this warm -  _ cozy _ , his mind supplied to his annoyance - space, with this person to whom he owed very little, and who in turn owed him absolutely nothing, he came dangerously close to appearing as he really was. It did not suit him one iota.

He was startled out of his reverie by tan skin once again falling across the pale expanse of his own. He stared at the hand overlapping his as if the image was an optical illusion he was determined to penetrate.

“Mycroft,” the rough accent drifted softly up to his ears from the man crouched before him, “please - let me help. I know you don’t let anyone in,” he ventured, “you Holmes boys are so alike, really. But please. For your own sake. For your health. Please let me try.”

Breaking his gaze away from where their hands still covered the arm of the chair, he studied the effect of the fire backlighting silver hair, of the loose thread on the shoulder of a plaid shirt, of anything but the man’s eyes, which felt as though they were rapidly reducing to ashes what little remained of the mask he wore.  _ For your own sake. For your health. You Holmes boys. _ He knew what was being insinuated, and that fact sent a violent shiver down his spine. Not because of what the truth was - he’d come to terms with that years ago - but because this person, this one person in all the world, this man who had not even been there to witness his destruction, his utter humiliation and defeat, this man was here, looking into his eyes, and he could see it. He could see the truth.  _ He can see me. _

Mycroft gave a series of shallow nods, aware that, in this moment, his voice would betray him. Greg smiled, his fear - Mycroft was accustomed to seeing fear on others’ faces, but it had always been  _ of _ him, not  _ for _ him - melting into gentle worry in the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Greg stood, ignoring what must have been a twinge of pain in an audibly cracking joint, and reached a hand down.

“Let’s go then. Bedtime for you, I reckon. Assuming you do sleep?”

“Yes,” Mycroft allowed himself a thin smile. “As you so astutely observed last evening, despite all of my best efforts to instill an impression to the contrary, I am indeed ‘just a man.’”

“Sorry,” Greg returned, uncertain as to whether he had been offensive, “all I meant was -”

“I know what you meant, and no, no offence was taken, I assure you. If anything, it’s my own fault. All the time I’ve spent cultivating a certain persona… well.”  _ Well for some reason, it doesn’t seem to deter you, _ he continued silently, hoping that at least his thoughts were still safe from the odd intuition of the Detective Inspector.

They did not speak again until they had gained Mycroft’s bedroom -  _ bedchamber _ , _ more like, _ Greg thought, stifling a laugh. He sat a still-unsteady Holmes on top of his duvet, the heavy gold brocade clashing terribly with clammy, translucent skin.

“Any medications or anything?”

Mycroft nodded toward the bedside table, where a shot glass with two pills had been set next to a paper-thin goblet of what was undoubtedly imported mineral water. The DI grabbed both and unceremoniously shoved them into Mycroft’s hands.

“While I may not be at my physical peak, I remain quite capable of -”

“Putting them back when I leave the room? Nice try.” His feet spread silently on the deep carpet, arms folded across his chest. “Take them. Now.”

Looking up sheepishly - or as sheepishly as Mycroft Holmes was capable of looking -  their standoff only lasted a few seconds before a resigned sigh was followed by two pills and a swig of water.

“Good,” said Greg in something just short of his  _ this is police business _ tone, moving to replace the glasses on the table more carefully than he had removed them. “What else do you need. Tell me.”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t be stubborn,” he chided, turning back toward the bed, “just - “

“Nothing,” Mycroft insisted. His eyes shifted to his right hand, where he imagined he could still feel the pressure of the other man’s comforting grip. “That is, unless you intend to undress me -”

Lestrade tripped over thin air, knocking the goblet to the floor where it thankfully did nothing more than bounce across rich crimson carpeting. A neat row of white teeth lit up his face as a nervous smile flashed at the seated man.

“I… yeah, I mean, if that’s something you need, I suppose I could -”

“Relax, Gregory. Though I’m not particularly known for it, I was making a joke. Although,” he cocked an eyebrow at the man trying desperately to collect himself, “it is rather encouraging to know that, should the need arise, you would be so willing to oblige. For the time being, I find that, for a second evening in a row, I owe you a debt of gratitude for your entirely selfless assistance in my hour of need.”

“Um, yeah. Yeah, ok. You’re welcome.” Greg stammered. “So then…” Steel-blue eyes met his own as he stood halfway to the door, one hand lightly rubbing the back of his neck. Should he? Was he supposed to think…?  _ Oh, what the hell. _ “Tomorrow?”

Mycroft nodded once, a glint in his eye that the detective had never seen there before. He strode out of the room as quickly as he could manage without breaking into a run, closing the bedroom door behind himself and slumping against it. He didn’t know why he should feel such excitement at the prospect of another uncomfortable dinner; however, he could not stop his own voice from echoing through his mind like a beacon from the foggy shore: tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Can’t make it tonight. Overseeing witness statements at crime scene. - Greg**

**Really sorry, though. H|**

Lestrade paused before sending the second text. He had written and deleted "hate to cancel" twice. It’s not as though he were breaking a date… exactly. _No,_ he mentally shook himself, _course it’s not a date. Simply a standing… engagement?_ Not that _that_ sounded much better, even in his head. Six evenings in a row, and he wasn’t sure quite what it was anymore, or how it had turned into an assumed appointment. In truth, Mycroft hadn’t invited him over tonight. He hadn’t invited him over the past two nights either. And yet, when Greg had arrived, the front door had been unlocked and dinner for two had been laid out in the smoking room. It was oddly comforting, and the DI had to admit to himself that he was rather disappointed at being forced to break with this new arrangement. Whether or not Mycroft felt the same way, he couldn’t know - or rather, he tried to convince himself he couldn’t know - but it would certainly be rude to allow dinner to be set out for him when he knew he wouldn’t be turning up.

**Really sorry, though. Hope I haven’t caused any inconvenience. Reschedule? - Greg**

* * *

Three hours of grilling witnesses who claimed to have seen nothing had left him exhausted and irritable. His uncharacteristically foul mood had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that he had received no text messages or phone calls in that time. Not that he’d checked his mobile every 20 minutes, because he most certainly hadn’t…

As he trudged toward the yellow tape marking off the area, left hand rubbing hard at his eyes, down his temple, and across his jaw as if attempting to forcibly rid himself of stress, something slowly spinning in the air caught his attention: an umbrella.

It could not be Mycroft Holmes. It would not be Mycroft Holmes. And yet, in crisp white shirt, grey wool suit, and magma-colored necktie, there he was.

"My- Mr. Holmes," he stuttered, suddenly aware that they had never used first names in public. In fact, they had rarely ever seen one another in public. Lestrade shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, their weight becoming inexplicably cumbersome.

"Detective Inspector. A word?"

"Yeah, sure. Um…" he glanced back at the sergeant on duty and pointed, indicating where he would be should they require his attention. Rather unnecessary, he realized, as he walked all of three meters to the waiting man with the haughty expression.

"Gregory," he began in a formal yet low tone, "I trust you’re almost finished with this little - "

"S’been a murder," came the indignant interjection.

"Yes, of course. Apologies," Mycroft responded with disinterest, surveying the scene lit only by a pale orange street lamp and flickering blue lights. "I simply meant to ask - " _(_ _I command the schedules of four Prime Ministers, and yet I find myself struggling to speak to a member of the London Met. I must truly be atrophying without my work.) "_  - to ask whether you are preparing to culminate your duties for the evening."

"Oh. I’m likely to be wrapped up here in about 10 minutes. But it’s past midnight now, isn’t it? Is something wrong with Sherlock?"

"Eleven fifty-four, Detective. And no, this has nothing to do with my brother. Ten minutes, then. Excellent." And with that, he strode into the shadows.

Eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, Greg was squinting around the darkened carpark, frustration quickly giving way to worry as he failed to spot his vehicle. Just as he was about to duck back under the tape and make some inquiries to the officers still on duty, he heard the smooth crunch of tires on pavement. A pristine black sedan had rolled to a stop behind him, rear door level with his position. _Should’ve bloody well known._

"Where’s my car?" he asked more impatiently than he felt once they had pulled into the main road.

"It’s been taken care of," replied the man unseeingly examining an old fashioned fob watch.

"Right," he huffed, though even he knew it was all for show. It had been ages since someone had attempted to take care of him, and though this wasn’t what he’d imagined he was after, he still found himself swallowing a smile.

"You did get my texts then?"

"I should think that would be quite apparent."

"So why didn’t you text back?"

"I prefer to call."

"So why didn’t you call?"

Mycroft kept his gaze locked on the blackened shop fronts illuminated only by security lighting. He remained silent long enough that Greg gave up hope of receiving an answer. Over the past week, the atmosphere between them had grown so genial, so comfortable, that he’d forgotten how detached the elder Holmes could -

"I thought," came a near-whisper from his left, "that since you would be forced to miss dinner this evening, you might be… hungry. If it is agreeable to you, I have arranged a small meal for us. If not - "

"No. I mean, yes. That does sound… agreeable. Sure. But at this hour, only places open are pubs. Where are we…" He trailed off as the car came to rest before a magnificent white edifice with a discreet gold plate beside the entrance.

"Before we enter, I must insist," The British Government fixed his eyes on Lestrade's, causing him to swallow audibly, "until we reach my private suite and the door has been secured behind us, you are not to utter a single word. Not a noise, not a cough. Do you understand, Detective Inspector?"

Greg nodded, a look of childlike fear freezing his features. _Where in hell is he taking me?_

* * *

Picked-over turkey, empty bowls of mash, and no fewer than three pies (all with slices missing) littered a heavy, highly-polished sideboard. Greg, single malt in hand, was slowly pacing the room, examining enormous paintings in gilded frames. Mycroft had explained something about this being a private establishment, lifetime membership, invitation only, etc. Not that any of that mattered, as he doubted he would ever so much as be invited into the place in daylight, let alone become a regular visitor. The vaulted ceilings of the lounge areas and the strict enforcement of utter silence outside private quarters lent the building an austere impression more appropriate to a church than a social club. _Though I suppose it’s not really all that social, is it,_ he mused, standing in mock reflection before the image of a forbidding waterfall.

"Reichenbach."

"Sorry?" Something about the word lit a spark in the back of the DI’s brain, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

"The Reichenbach Falls."

"Oh." He dismissed the feeling of near-recollection. "Are they real?"

"All too real, I’m afraid." An expression of sadness - no, guilt - and weariness, washed over Mycroft’s features. The years, the terrors he had seen, had _inflicted_ , the false realities and deceit, had left him to bear a surprising loneliness. An ache in the heart he desperately wished to have surgically removed. It did not bother him to have no one to whom he could confide his deeds. It was his personal identity, his sense of self. As he watched the normal, average, completely ordinary man wandering through his space, free to live his life as he chose, for the first time in his own life he wondered who he was. Who he really was. And, ridiculous a question as it seemed, whether he, Mycroft Holmes, still existed as an independent entity in this world.

"S’nice." His reverie was interrupted by a rough accent, edged with serene exhaustion. "I mean, a bit overdone. But I suppose all the offices here are like this?"

Mycroft nodded in silent affirmation.

"That’s what I thought. Don’t get me wrong, I like it well enough. Matches your house as well, eh? It’s just… nah, nevermind."

"Do go on," came the hazy reply through a dry mouth.

"I was just gonna say… it’s not really _you_ , though, is it."

The fog lifted instantly from Mycroft’s mind, the room coming into sharp focus. "What do you mean? And no, I assure you," he added hastily, seeing the concern on Lestrade’s face, "that I am not offended."

"Right well, I dunno. All the heavy old furniture, brocade pillow things, plush red velvet. Like I say, it’s nice and all. But when I was in your kitchen, the first time we - "  _What?_ Greg thought. _The first time we what?_ "I went into the side room. The small one, with the fridge covered in notes. It was clean and simple, and…"

"And it felt… like me? Is that what you’re suggesting?"

Greg wasn’t certain, but he could swear the other man was searching his face for something. Could it be - reassurance? Hope? He decided to chance it.

"Yeah. I guess that is what I’m suggesting. All these - " he waved a hand over his shoulder, indicating the suite, the house, perhaps the whole of Mycroft’s persona " - things. I don’t know what you _do_ , but Sherlock has hinted enough over the years that I suppose you need all this. Part of the role, probably. But it’s not who you are. I know we haven’t known each other personally for very long," a faint flush rose under his five o’clock shadow at his own presumption, and he finished quietly, "but anyway. That’s how it seems."

Mycroft sat in a stunned silence. No one - _no one_ \- had ever spoken to him this way. Not in terms of directness or honesty, but about himself, inherently, as a person. Until a few minutes prior, he had refused even to contemplate the subject within the confines of his own mind. Yet after one week, this man - this normal, average, ordinary man - had seen it all. Not the demons or the deception, but him. His nature. His heart.

"Gregory," he asked, not risking a glance at the man who had just begun to dismantle his walls, "would you pour me a whiskey?" He rose slowly and took up residence in one of the two chairs set before the fire, accepting the proffered glass in his left hand as the DI crossed in front of him to settle into the other seat. He drew slowly on the amber liquid and breathed deeply.

"Gregory. If you’re not otherwise engaged, would you care to have a proper dinner with me?”

"This wasn’t a proper dinner?” he responded incredulously, eyebrows raised in the direction of the remnants of a whole turkey.

"What I mean to say is…" he hesitated, and in an unprecedented turn of events, simply allowed himself to feel the nerves jumbling his insides, "would you care to have dinner with me. Out."

A sideways look showed a startled detective, lips parted, eyes turned away.

"You are certainly under no obligation to say yes. Perhaps I was incorrect in supposing - "

"When?" The question came as fingers laced into his, both of their hands now resting on the edge of his chair.

"I… tomorrow?" Mycroft stuttered, all of his strength focused on diverting his gaze to the fire. He heard Greg settle back into his chair, taking a satisfied sip of his refreshed drink.

"Right then. Tomorrow."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After several years, the non-English bit is most of what remains of my paltry Tibetan skills. If you actually speak/read Tibetan, please forgive me and feel free to message with corrections :)

The afternoon had finally dragged itself into evening, though the only sign of it in Mycroft Holmes’ office was the miniscule digital display silently marking the minutes at the corner of his screen. He had opted for a black suit upon dressing this morning, a pale purple tie completing the ensemble that had raised more than one eyebrow throughout the day’s various meetings. The aim had been to bring him up to speed on the happenings of the Empire (which the world quaintly believed no longer existed, how nice it must be to live in ignorance), yet little enough had occurred during his _hiatus_ to warrant more than a series of brief memos.

As he pondered the origin of his sudden sense of boredom with this work, his mobile chimed. He checked the time: 6:14pm. _Sherlock._

**He says to tell you 48? - JW**

**As suspected. Thank you, Dr. Watson.**

Following a quarter of an hour and three scathing emails to the imbeciles who had prepared a report on the current state of the staged territorial struggle over the Falkland Islands, a second beep issued from his cell phone.

“Really, Sherlock,” he directed to no one, “it was a bloody four. What on earth could you possibly -”

He stopped short as his eyes fell on the lit screen.

**If I don’t hear from you, I’ll expect a mysterious black car to show up outside NSY at 8, yeah?**

He swallowed with difficulty, his throat having suddenly gone dry. Another beep.

**Probably shouldn’t say this, but rather looking forward to tonight. Nothing quite like a first date. Know I’ll never be as posh as you Holmeses, just hoping I’ve dressed to code. ;)**

Disregarding the intentional use of an emoticon _(It’s called an emoji, Mycroft. A trivial detail for which I have no time at the moment, Sherlock.)_ , he found Gregory’s messages rather… well, he didn’t quite know how he found them, which was unnerving to say the least. He read the final sentence once more, then scrolled through his contacts. Of one thing he was certain - a change of plans was in order.

“Le Gavroche, bonsoir.”

“Yes. Mycroft Holmes. Please inform Michel that I will not be needing my table tonight after all.”

A muffled whisper through the covered receiver, then,  “Oui, Monsieur Holmes. As you wish.”

The line went silent, and Mycroft placed his second call.

“Johnston? Holmes. Yes, thank you, and you? Glad to hear it. Listen, need a favor tonight...”

The call complete and his mobile safely nested inside his jacket, he consulted the documents on his screen, deciding hastily that none of them required any further attention or action before morning. He began clearing his desk, and noticed that he had been absent-mindedly drawing on his blotter while on that last call. He tore off the top sheet with practiced precision and studiously ignored the repetitiously handwritten “GL” now sinking into the shredder beneath his desk.

* * *

He had texted Molly, and she’d said no. Said it was “spring/summer,” whatever that meant. He thought the tan suit would be a good choice, would set nicely against his dark skin (for an Englishman, anyway). Oh well. It’d be the light grey, then. He’d held up the white shirt for a minute, realized Mycroft would almost certainly be wearing a white shirt himself, and traded it for black. _Tie, or no tie…_ He settled for stuffing one into his coat pocket. Of course he would probably have to wear it in the end, but to be honest, it made him feel a bit like a game show host. Looking himself over one last time before leaving the flat, he’d unfastened an extra button at his collar - there. That’ll do.

He had succeeded in keeping his focus on cases and admin all day, but once the afternoon sky turned dark and the activity in the cubicles outside his office subsided, he found his own most private thoughts creeping to the fore.

He’d never considered dating a man before. _Ok, that’s only technically true._ There had been a handful of times over the years when he’d noticed other men, though he had not admitted as much to himself until he was safely ensconced behind the veil of marriage. During the rare instances when he’d recalled those moments, lying awake at night, his mind racing after a particularly charged case, he found it nearly impossible to determine whether what he’d felt had been genuine attraction or more of a benign envy - he wasn’t sure whether he wanted them, or wanted, somehow, to be like them.

Following the divorce, he had pushed all that aside. Relationships were complicated enough without throwing that kind of wrench into the mix. _Yes_ , he thought, as the fluorescent lights battled the last rays of sunset for prominence in his office, _there are still instances._ _Prolonged glances in the coffee shop queue, casual brushes of hands on the tube..._ He knew what they were now, knew that he was a willing if rather reticent participant, but none were ever enough. None were worth the effort, the redefinition of self, the potential for reliving a sort of teenage angst.

And then, after years of barely registering each other’s existence except on the few occasions when they had come into direct contact, there was Mycroft Holmes. He was anything but ordinary, that was plainly obvious to anyone unlucky enough to fall under his stony gaze. Yet there was something… else. Maybe it was something deeper, or maybe no one else had troubled to look. In this week - _hell, it’s only been a week!_ \- of evenings spent alone, Lestrade had felt something unexpected that he had been seeking for far too long. Being with Mycroft was, ironically, easy.

A quick glance at his watch told him it was about 6:30. They wouldn’t meet for an hour and a half, and he really should use that time to slog through this infinite pile of paperwork. He needed to get his mind off of his man of mystery and their evening ahead. He picked up his mobile and prepared to send a text.

* * *

 It was bloody freezing thanks to the sleety rain that had begun falling as they exited the car. Greg didn’t know whether this was a restaurant or an underground casino, but the shabby, rather forbidding brick exterior made him wonder if he’d need to flash his badge before the evening came to a close.

Mycroft, meanwhile, was typically unaffected, and began speaking the moment the rusty sliding eye slat in the door was opened.

“Kang pap bah rey.”

_I must’ve misheard that..._

“Mang-chung yuh rey bay?”

_This is getting weird, even for a Holmes. Well, maybe not for Sherlock..._

“Dangshinba.”

_...which means nothing good can possibly come of -_

Within seconds, the two men had been shoved unceremoniously through the door. Distracted by the heavy clanging behind him as it swung shut on sixty year old hinges, the DI was startled by the slightly irritated “Gregory?” from his left. Mycroft had removed his own coat and was holding out an arm to accept his as well.

_At least he’s behaving like a gentleman, even if he brought me to -_

“What is this place?” He hadn’t meant it to sound rude, and his cheeks flushed as he caught the brief expression flashing across his companion’s face - as though he’d been slapped - which was followed by an unmistakably colder tone.

“Well, Gregory,” the name sounded like gravel in his mouth, “if you must know, this _place_ has no name. You either know it’s here or you don’t. You either know how to gain access or not. I assumed - and given your obvious discomfort in that necktie, I was correct - that it would be a more comfortable atmosphere for you than some of the other establishments I frequent. However, should you prefer to leave, I shall simply require a few minutes to arrange -”

“No. No, I don’t want to leave, I…” Greg finally took in his surroundings as they were led to a table against the far wall, with lower lighting and more candles than its neighbors. Strategically falling shadows, plush navy carpeting, ornately carved cherry wood tables and chairs. All around them, conversations in hushed voices that were only a shade too loud to be considered whispers.

He had taken it for granted that Mycroft would have made a reservation at some high end French restaurant. And while it was true that he had anticipated being uncomfortable in a more upscale locale, he had also looked forward to being out in public together - in for a penny and all that. If he were completely honest with himself, he would have to admit that he liked the idea of the world - or at least, upper crust London - seeing him wined and dined by Mycroft Holmes. Not because of the power aspect, he couldn’t care less about that, but because the man was so selective. Greg had dared to believe he might be… special. _Sound like a schoolgirl, don’t I. Talk about desperate._

“Well then,” he piped up, trying not to let his disappointment show. “This place. It is quite private.”

“Exclusive,” Mycroft spoke over the last word. “Oh. Yes. It is that, indeed. Incidentally, Gregory, you may feel free to remove your tie.”

“Right.” He nodded cheerlessly at the deduction, though his hands were working as fast as they could at the task. “Thanks.” He was grateful to see the first course - apparently prearranged - was already headed toward them. When exactly the wine had been delivered and poured, he hadn’t the faintest idea.

“So, then,” Greg continued, determined to make the most of this evening. “First day at the office, wasn’t it? How’s it being back?”

Mycroft jerked his head up in alarm, eyes darting wildly around the room.

“Hey, no worries,” Greg reassured, both hands held up in a supplicating gesture, “I’m not asking for details. Not my division, anyway.” He winked, smiling so genuinely at his own little joke that Mycroft couldn’t help but relax. Seeing his date’s shoulders drop, he pushed a little further, hoping to coax an answer out of a man who created secrets for a living. “I do know what it’s like, though, returning to work after medical leave. No matter how eager you are to get back on the horse, it’s never a comfortable feeling to realize things went on without you, even if the standards slipped a bit.” At the other’s quizzical look, he added, “You don’t think of me having a dangerous job, sitting behind a desk most days. Wasn’t always a detective inspector though, was I?”

This last statement did indeed give Mycroft pause. Of course Lestrade had worked his way up the ranks in the department like anyone else; he had simply never given it much consideration. Any consideration, to be honest. The DI, before holding that title, had been injured in the line of duty, then, had been forced away from work that likely sustained him day to day, had faced the struggle to readjust and had succeeded. _What else about this man have I failed to consider?_

“I will deny every word of this should you find it necessary to relate to another person,” Mycroft began, “however… yes. I am finding it surprisingly uncomfortable. For as long as I can remember, I have always been -” he stopped speaking as their plates were cleared and a second course was laid before them.

“Indispensable?” Greg suggested as the server moved out of earshot.

“Sounds a tad conceited when you say it,” he muttered to his scallops, “but it’s true. Having only returned this morning, I cannot yet say whether that is as accurate an assessment of my professional worth as I previously assumed. What I have already noticed, however, is a missing sense of… well, for lack of a better word, I suppose, _joy._ ”

It was Greg’s turn to look taken aback. While it was clear that the elder Holmes took great pride in wielding what appeared to be a tremendous amount of power, in occupying a position above the law, above the rest of society, perhaps, it had never occurred to him that he would take joy in the work itself. Not the way his younger brother or John, or even he himself, typically did. He had assumed that the job, whatever it was, provided a means to an end. That was far too personal for a first date though…

“You _like_ your job?” He blurted, frustrated by the disconnection between his brain and his vocal chords. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

Mycroft furrowed his brow for a moment at the question, then a lightness spread across his features beginning in his eyes. To Greg’s utter astonishment, and the irritation of some neighboring tables, his companion began to laugh. Not sarcastic, not forced, not even controlled, it was a sound Greg doubted more than a tiny handful of people had heard, and before he was aware of himself, he had joined in.

Both men sat laughing until a stern look from the manager near the kitchen entrance caught Mycroft’s eye and he cleared his throat dramatically to indicate the need to end the accidental merriment. He signaled for their plates to be removed and, rallying all his willpower, declined the offer of dessert. Without asking, Greg ordered them each a strong cup of tea, which arrived with unparalleled speed. They remained in comfortable silence, surreptitiously surveying the room through the steam wafting out of sturdy china. When his cup was nearly empty, Mycroft spoke.

“Classic films, then?”

“Sorry?” Greg responded, not taking his eyes from another pair of men four tables away. They were holding hands. One was wearing a wedding band.

“I was asking, Detective Inspector, whether you had any interest in classic films?”

“Oh.” The distracted tone lingered as he forced his gaze back to his dinner partner. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I enjoy an old movie now and again. Why d’you ask?”

“Perhaps if you were so inclined, we could take in a film together?”

“Sounds good, yeah. I’d like that. D’you know a place that shows them?” His attention had drifted to another couple, a man and a woman whose rings were so obviously mismatched that it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce the nature of the relationship.

“I see I’ve been remiss in not giving you a full tour of my mans… home. It so happens that I have a private viewing theatre.”

“Oh. Right. Course you would. That’s…” the DI nodded, too focused on the other patrons to disguise his disappointment, “I guess that’s fine.”

Mycroft’s heart sank. He rarely shared his personal interests with anyone, and he’d hoped the invitation would convey a sense of welcome, of - even thinking the word felt treacherous to his heart - intimacy. Yet Gregory had not only failed to be impressed by this gesture, he had not even deigned to look away from the couple next to them having, by the looks of the man’s shirt collar, a poorly concealed affair. It was almost as disheartening as a few minutes prior when he was distracted by the two men at another table, also having…

“Then again,” he ventured, standing and moving slowly toward the door, “perhaps you and I have had rather enough privacy for one week, don’t you agree?”

“Hm. Wait, what?” Greg jumped up, almost spilling the cold dregs of his tea on his lap and hastening his pace to catch up.

“What would you say -” rapid tapping on mobile keys “- to the BFI Southbank?”

Greg perked up dramatically as they stepped into the icy night air. “Yeah ok, which film?”

“Does it matter?” The light was back in the elder Holmes’ eyes.

Greg shook his head, embarrassed at his inability to curb his broad smile. “When?”

A dark sedan pulled up just then. Greg eyed it for a minute, and as his attention returned to his date, they answered simultaneously:

“Tomorrow.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darling Readers: Please forgive how slow I am in writing/posting. I have several major life events taking place at once - all good - that are sucking up my time and energy in an epic way. I promise you I will finish every single story I start, and the long gaps between chapters in my stories won't last forever. Thanks for sticking with me <3


	5. Chapter 5

“And furthermore,” Sherlock spat, turning in the doorway to cast one last venomous look at Lestrade, “my brother does not engage in typical romantic entanglements, and therefore, if I were you - aside from being an incomparably dull person and a nearly incompetent investigator - I should be rather suspect of Mycroft Holmes’ _attentions_. John?”

Wishing that coat would catch on a loose nail as it whipped around the corner, Lestrade sighed heavily and pushed himself out of his desk chair.

“Nearly incompetent. That’s an upgrade, I suppose…”

“Listen,” John began wearily, ignoring the bellowing of his name from somewhere near the lifts, “he doesn’t mean it, you know he doesn’t. It's just that ever since… they’re still trying to work things out between them, you know? I think, in his way, he’s actually trying to protect his brother.”

“He’s protecting Mycroft? _From me?_ ” Greg asked incredulously.

“Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. To be fair, he does have a point. No doubt Mycroft was affected by what happened, though none of us can really be sure how since he’d sooner die than let someone get close enough to find out. Hell, I’m not even sure he’s got any friends. When a man like that suddenly expresses interest in a relationship, you have to see that it doesn’t add up.”

“You’re one to talk,” Greg fired back snidely, folding his arms across his chest.

“Speaking of which, I think it’s about time you and I had a pint. If you insist on trying to date a Holmes,” he glanced over his shoulder to be certain Sherlock had indeed left for the crime scene, “there are a few things you should know. Meet me at 7:30, usual place? Though for all our sakes, especially yours - do consider what Sherlock said, despite his reasons for saying it?”

Lestrade didn’t respond to either question, instead choking on the lump rising in his throat. “Come on then. Can’t leave that one alone too long with the forensics team, someone’s likely to lose a limb.”

John chuckled. “Black eye at the least.”

*

“Et tu, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft muttered without humor, switching off the NSY live video feed and disconnecting from the audio on the blogger’s mobile. He had tuned in to follow up on his brother, to determine whether the declared abstinence from drugs was fact or deception. The benefit to witnessing this scene was his assurance, particularly by way of Sherlock’s irritable mood, that his younger brother had genuinely remained clean.

Within that silver lining, however, was the actual content of what he had just overheard. Sherlock warning the DI off, John suggesting there was cause for what his brother so uncharitably implied. He was grateful that he and Gregory already had plans for the evening; perhaps he would be able to set their relationship more firmly on course before either of those traitors could sway the detective too far from his reach.

His mobile chimed.

**Something’s come up with work. Can’t make it tonight.**

* * *

**Change of plans. Could you meet me at the pub? - Greg**

Mycroft laid his phone down without answering. He had tried to convince himself he was angry. When that failed, he aimed for indifference - a well-rehearsed position which had indeed sustained him for several hours. The still-glowing screen having harassed his peripheral vision, he had eventually grabbed the device and roughly shut it into a drawer. He had managed to read the same sentence of an American surveillance report four times - _what those people consider English is simply appalling, just as well we allowed them to break with the throne_ \- before a muffled tune sounded at his left elbow.

He withdrew his mobile from the drawer and sighed into the receiver, trying desperately to sound as bored as he wished he was. “Yes?”

“Did you get my text?”

 _He sounds anxious_. _Only himself to blame for that…_

“No,” Mycroft lied.

“Well it so happens I know you did; it’s marked ‘Read at 7:12pm.’”

Damn technology. Just when he thought he’d gained total control over its -

“Anyway, could you meet me?”

There was a loaded pause, during which Mycroft unconsciously held his breath.

“Please?”

 _What is there to be gained by this behavior? What, precisely, am I hoping to achieve? Were it Sherlock behaving this way…_ The thought that he might be acting even remotely like his younger brother - the man who had only hours ago attempted to destroy the first potential romantic endeavor he had pursued since his college days - made the decision about how to proceed exceedingly simple.

“When?”

“Uh… now? Do you know where -”

But Mycroft had already rung off as Anthea materialized in his office.

“Car will be here in five minutes, sir.”

The sound of a tapping umbrella trailed down the corridor, obscured by stainless steel lift doors as its owner dropped rapidly toward ground level, blaming the unnatural motion for the twisting sensation in his stomach.

A sensation which, twenty-three minutes later, increased in severity as he approached the silver-haired man perched at the bar, sipping perfunctorily at a glass of scotch and feigning interest in the cricket match on the television suspended from the low ceiling a few feet away. Something in the DI’s posture heightened Mycroft’s concern, and he swallowed hard as he took up the next stool.

“Gregory?” He ventured, more tentatively than was his usual style.

“Don’t freak out,” Greg responded, sounding even more off-kilter than he had on the phone, “but the case didn’t go quite as -”

“Who did this to you?” Mycroft demanded the moment the other man turned toward him, lower lip swollen, the aubergine ring around his right eye melding into the almost black stripe across the bridge of his nose, covered rather uselessly by two small bandages.

“Calm down, it was just -”

“If my brother had anything to do with this…” His fingers were already flying across the keys of his mobile, slowed only by a firm grip falling across the screen.

“Sherlock was already gone. He’d made his bloody deductions and swanned off as he always does, missing the fact that there was an accomplice. The man was unarmed, but as you can see,” he gestured to his distorted features, wincing slightly as he lifted his arm, “that didn’t exactly deter him from attacking an officer.”

Mycroft reluctantly dropped his phone into his pocket, eyeing the visible contusions and wondering what additional damage may have been done. Feeling frustratingly helpless, he examined the bottles lining the wall behind the bar. _Now I know why Sherlock chose a doctor…_

“Have you been to hospital, then?”

“Yeah, paramedics insisted. Aside from what you see, some bruised ribs, bit of a knock to the knee - nothing serious.”

“I presume they instructed you to return home and rest. Why, then, are we meeting here,” he looked around derisively, “of all places?”

Greg stared hard into his still-full glass. “After leaving A&E, I was in a cab on my way here to meet John for a pint.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Mycroft’s unconvincing expression of surprise. “You knew I was lying,” he huffed. “Probably have a damn video feed of my office or something. Anyway, I was coming to meet John, when I realized,” he turned just his head, shoulders still slumped protectively toward the bar, “there was only one person I wanted to see.”

Mycroft’s chin lifted slowly, lips parted slightly, his eyes flickering side to side rapidly as if working a complex mathematical equation. Greg dropped his eyes back to his drink, examining it with obvious distaste before pushing it away.

“Can’t help it. Guess I’ve become a bit spoiled now I’ve had the good stuff.”

“Yes. Well. I’m sure I have something suitable to offer if you’re inclined to take your leave from this establishment.” He slid easily off the barstool and hung his umbrella from his left arm, gently slipping the other around Lestrade’s waist, avoiding his injuries.

As he was half-carried to the waiting vehicle, the DI reflected that this much help was completely unnecessary; and yet, until he was stretched out on a sofa before the fire in the first-floor lounge, he didn’t speak a word of protest.

“It’s really not that bad,” he mumbled as the cushions supporting his back were arranged and rearranged. “I can handle a few pillows on my own.”

“Gregory, you asked for my assistance.” The firm response was tinged with an unmistakable pride that was not lost on the injured man, who smiled shyly as he settled back into the overly-fluffed cushions. “Now,” Mycroft continued, “will you manage on your own for a few minutes?”

Greg nodded, a soft expression lighting his features as he began to feel the warmth from the fire. His eyes traced the crisp seams on the back of an olive jacket, and he failed to notice himself nodding off as the suit and its inhabitant strode purposefully into the hall and around the corner toward the stairs. After what felt like only a few moments, his eyes fluttered open again at the sound of his own name being gently repeated. Mycroft had pulled up a chair alongside the sofa and was setting a carved oak tray across his lap.

“I assumed you would be hungry,” came the matter-of-fact explanation from the man staring into the fire with the intensity of a person who believed he could increase the size of the flames by sheer force of will.

Greg let his gaze linger slightly on the profile falling half in shadow, half in a warm orange glow before turning to see what it was he would be expected to eat. He knew he wouldn’t be up for much of the typical over-rich fare he had enjoyed on his previous visits, so he was relieved to see - _Chicken soup? Mycroft Holmes made me chicken soup?_ As he lifted the spoon to his grinning lips, he noticed the subtle movement to his right of long pale fingers picking invisible lint off of impeccably tailored trousers.

* * *

The room was done in midnight blues and dramatic royal purples. In one corner stood a smaller version of the mahogany wardrobe that furnished the main bedroom. A cream-colored antique Tiffany lampshade tempered the light spreading from the nightstand. Lestrade had seen photos of hotels that rivaled this degree of luxury, but he never imagined such a plush decor in the guest room of a private home. More than that, he never considered that he would be the occupant of such a space. Unfortunately, his enjoyment was hampered by the fear that he might break something.

“I assure you, there is no need to worry about that.” Mycroft spoke suddenly, clenching his fists awkwardly in his pockets. “There is nothing here that cannot be replaced. Well, with the obvious exception of…” He looked Greg over quickly, then manufactured a cough to excuse his reddening cheek bones.

Greg’s mouth opened slightly in surprise at the insinuation and he leaned forward. “My- _ssss_ ,” he hissed as a sharp pain shot through his ribs.

The other man closed the distance quickly, forcing him to sit at an odd angle to relieve the stress on his bruised torso without adding undue pressure to his knee. Bracing one arm on either side of the detective to ensure he was stable, his gaze lingered with absent-minded ostentation on the stubble covering the DI’s jaw.

“Mycroft…” came a breathy whisper at his ear. “I don’t know if you… I mean, we haven’t even…”

A heavy swallowing sound was all the posh man could muster.

“My…”

When Greg had said it a moment ago, it’d been an accident forced by an unexpected expression of pain. But this time… _is he really calling me -_

“My,” he repeated more forcefully, more urgently.

Mycroft tilted his head down gradually, absorbing every incremental increase in sensation until his own skin rested lightly against Greg’s, his own jaw dragging gently across the one below, each tiny sting of five o’clock shadow leaving a mark felt much deeper within him. He hesitated as their lips hovered barely apart. It was true; for all the time they’d spent, they hadn’t even…

Greg lost patience first, and his warm, dry mouth grazed across Mycroft’s shivering lower lip, once, twice. _This isn’t simply a kiss_ , the eternally analyzing brain began. His right hand carefully wrapped around the back of the injured man’s neck, while his left slid further back onto the bed, gradually lowering the DI to -

“Ahh _fuck_!” Greg shouted, wincing as he collapsed onto his back.

Mycroft’s eyes went wide with embarrassment, and he backed toward the door hastily.

“Mycroft...”

“There’s…” the retreating man pointed to the pajamas folded neatly on a stiffly upholstered chair.

“Mycroft.”

“And I’m sure if you need any assistance the staff will be -”

“My!”

One hand fiercely gripping the door handle, he froze at the use of the newly minted endearment.

“I’m fine, yeah? Look at me?”

Mycroft turned slowly, unaware that he was still biting his lower lip and utterly confused by the tender smile spreading across Greg’s face.

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I’m sure a bit of rest will work wonders - for both of us. Will you still be here in the morning?”

“Early meetings at the office, I’m afraid.” To his own astonishment, Mycroft found that, for the first time in recent memory, he was truly disappointed by his occupational commitments.

“Right then. Maybe after you finish work?”

“If I’m released from my responsibilities at a decent hour, I should very much like to continue this…”

“Conversation?” Greg smirked.

“Tomorrow then?” he asked, opening the door in longing to escape the mishap that had become this evening.

“Thanks for the soup.”

“Yes. Well.” Mycroft’s mouth opened and closed at the unanticipated mention of his _domesticity_ , causing Greg to laugh lightly at his resemblance to a goldfish in a suit.

“Goodnight, My,” he nodded. “Tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darling Readers - Please do forgive the wait for new chapters/work from me these days. I just moved home to the US from Zimbabwe and I'm weeks from having a baby, so life has been hectic in the extreme. I swear I will always finish anything I start, it just might be awhile under the circumstances <3


	6. Chapter 6

“S’the same thing you said last night.”

“That fact, Gregory, does not render the situation any less true.”

“And the night before that.”

“Please, Gregory. Let's not make an unfortunate -”

“Unfortunate?” The DI slumped deeper into his chair, swiveling around to stare blankly at the dimming London sky beyond his office windows. “What’s unfortunate is that I keep letting you put me off like this. What’s unfortunate is that I foolishly believe you’ll make good on the same promises you’ve broken for weeks now. And why do I do this to myself?”

“Gregory…”

“Because I’m desperate, that’s why. You damn Holmeses are just alike, aren’t you. Make people dependent, then give what you want, when it suits you.” Mycroft’s heavy sigh filled the receiver in response. “Well I’m done being desperate. For either of you.”

“Gregory, I’ve tried to explain about the nature of my work, I thought you understood…”

“Understood what? That you haven’t felt the same since… whatever-the-hell it was that happened that night? That you don’t love it the way you did, but somehow it’s still worth giving up everything else in your life?”

Another sigh. “I haven’t given up _everything_ in my life for my work.”

“Haven’t you?”

“Gregory, I will provide with you as many details as possible to help you comprehend -”

“ _Comprehend?”_ The detective rose to his feet and began pacing the now well-worn path in the non-descript industrial carpet of his office.

“While you are correct in your description of my recent change in attitude toward my work, it has nevertheless required particular concentration of late. You must see that I have had no other choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

“Perhaps that is indeed true for most men, and for the first time in many years I admit I find myself slightly envious in that regard. However, as dwelling on that will provide no benefit, I will not do so. Given the time, I really should be going. I’ve hours, if not days, ahead of me. I will call you -”

“Tomorrow?” Greg spat sarcastically into the phone.

“Yes, of course.”

“Maybe this time...” he stopped pacing, suddenly aware of the clenched fist in his pocket, “maybe this time, don’t.”

The detective pitched his mobile onto his desk, wishing he had been using his landline - slamming the receiver down would’ve been much more satisfying. He paused a moment, then punished a stack of manila folders for the misdeeds of his absentee… what? Boyfriend? _I’m damn near fifty_ , he thought bitterly. _And besides, we never even shagged._

“I...um...bad day, sir?”

Lestrade looked up to find the new sergeant in his division standing in his doorway. Taking in the young man’s poorly disguised anxiety, he realized the figure he must’ve cut: files scattered across the floor, vein in his temple throbbing, knuckles pressed painfully into the woodgrain of the desktop. _I look like an exasperated chief in one of those damn police procedurals on telly_. He wanted to laugh, but failing to find enough lightness in himself, he merely rolled back his shoulders and sighed.

“Mountain of paperwork,” he replied with a half-hearted smile, “bureaucracy, eh? Anyway,” he continued genially, stooping to collect the detritus of his momentary lapse in patience, “what can I do for you?”

* * *

“Answer your phone.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

Though Anthea’s uncanny ability to materialize at will had been an asset since the first week she’d taken up the position, at this precise juncture, Mycroft found himself irritated by it.

“Nevermind,” he snapped, jabbing at his phone as the voicemail prompt greeted him once again. He had rung twice already that day, and, against his better judgment, had left messages both times. He would not further his digital humiliation by leaving a third, especially within earshot of his assistant. After sending Anthea away with several assignments pulled out of thin air, he returned his attention to his mobile. It was unlike Gregory not to at least respond via text. _And it is unlike me to waste time and energy waiting for a phone call from someone from whom I require nothing._ He refreshed his email, drummed his fingers on his desk, and collected his mobile once again.

 

Unlock::Messages

**Are you two embroiled in any cases at the moment?**

**Not a thing. - JW**

**Have you checked in with the police?**

**Lestrade’s got nothing on either. Slow crime week. - JW**

**Suspect normal people would be happy about that. - JW**

**I suspect you are right.**

**Let us know if you’ve got anything. Please? He’s teaching Rosie the basics of dissection… - JW**

**At least it’s not vivisection, Dr Watson.**

**Oh god. - JW**

 

He’d gathered the information he needed. With a brief message to Anthea that he would continue working from his private office at the club, he strode purposefully down the corridor and into the lifts. If he maintained his usual pace (which he hadn’t since Sherrinford), the primary project with which he’d been concerned should be satisfactorily concluded in four days.

He was already stepping from the car as it slid to a stop in front of cold white walls. A storm had been threatening for days, and appeared on the verge of breaking. The clanking of the old-fashioned key in the iron gate was drowned out by the memory of a voice.

_You always have a choice._

* * *

“New voicemail one: _This is Mycroft Holmes, calling today as promised. Please call me back at your earliest convenience._ End of message. To delete this message, press -”

The phone was on speaker, causing the hollow beep to echo through the empty room.

“New voicemail two: _Gregory. This is Mycroft, attempting to contact you once again. I can be reached at any time -”_

The beep sounded once more.

“You have no voicemail messages.”

Lestrade sipped his second glass of scotch. He’d returned home early, entering his flat just as the bruise-colored clouds gave way. Now only the prematurely blackened sky was visible beyond his windows; only the sound of the downpour spattering hard against the glass broke the silence left by his deleted messages. Until his mobile chimed again, this time unbidden.

**Do you intend answering any of my calls?**

**No.**

**Then given the weather, I hope you will at least consider answering the door.**

Three incongruously faint raps followed. _Damn._

“Coming,” the DI called in response, pausing to down the remainder of his drink, pour another, and drain half of that before wrenching open the door to reveal -

“Jesus, Mycroft.” He gaped at the six feet of soaking wet tweed standing before him. “What in the bloody hell have you been doing?”

“May I come in?” Neither his voice nor his mannerisms betrayed him, yet there was something oddly uncertain in his eyes.

“Huh? Yeah, ‘course.” Lestrade stepped back, securing the locks before turning to find a dripping government official gingerly hanging his coat over a chair. “What are you -”

“Oh,” Mycroft lifted his coat, a flash of disappointment crossing his usually-stoic countenance. “Yes. Right. Apologies. I shouldn’t have assumed I would be welcome here long enough to -”

“I don’t care about the damn jacket. Why are you sopping wet? Where the hell have you been?”

“Three glasses of scotch works wonders for your vocabulary, I see. In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a rather significant storm sweeping across the city this evening.”

“Yeah, I got that bit. But,” Greg’s voice faded as he stepped down the short hall toward the bath, “are you telling me you got that wet walking from the car to my flat?!”

“I did not employ my driver’s services this evening. Thank you,” he added, accepting the proffered towel and drying his face and hands.

Greg’s mind wandered as he became aware of the bleach spots and loose threads on the faded blue flannel. At the memory of the plush ivory-toned bath linens he’d used the morning after he’d sustained those injuries on duty - the morning he’d woken feeling particularly well-rested despite the bruised rib - his face began to burn with embarrassment. He stared into the amber drops lingering in his glass, willing himself not to begin a visual inspection of the flat from the perspective of the man now standing in a small puddle on the scuffed wood floors.

“Gregory, the appointment of your residence is not my concern. The reason I’ve come -”

“Wait. What d’you mean, you didn’t use your driver? How’d you get here?”

“In spite of the constant jibes from my brother, I am in fact capable of the most primitive means of transportation, even when covering a fair distance…”

“You’re saying you walked here? In this?!” He gestured unnecessarily toward the window. “Even with an umbrella -” He stopped speaking abruptly and cast a suspicious eye over his unexpected guest. “Where is your umbrella?”

Mycroft shifted his weight uncomfortably. “It… met with a rather untimely end.” He swallowed hard and stared toward the glistening flecks of water crashing through the light of a street lamp.

“Let me get this straight. You walked here. In the rain. Your umbrella broke. And you still didn’t call a car to pick you up? Didn’t hail a cab? Why?”

Mycroft fixed his gaze on the DI’s forehead just between his brows, hoping he’d be fooled by that age-old trick for avoiding eye contact. For all his feigned bravado, he was not yet ready to venture an explanation for his spontaneous and ill-advised departure from his work.

“Perhaps you would be so kind…” He gestured toward Greg’s glass, patently ignoring the slight break in his own voice.

Greg nodded slowly as he filled a second glass, silently indicating a deeper sort of understanding. He took a long draw of the newly poured scotch before handing it over, keeping his gaze fixed firmly enough on his companion’s to catch the flash of hope in his eyes, then leaned back against the kitchen doorframe, still cradling his own drink.

Mycroft tried not to appear as grateful as he felt for the moment of relief bought by the warm sensation of _liquid courage_ , as he had once heard Dr. Watson call it. Unfortunately, that moment was rather short lived, as he choked slightly at Lestrade’s next question.

“Thought you had all that work to do then. Some potential world crisis to attend to? So let’s have it. Why are you here?”

Suddenly he could see himself: lying to his assistant about working to stand dripping wet, uninvited, in the middle of Gregory Lestrade’s modest flat, sipping desperately from a glass of mid-range whiskey. The absurdity of it was too much, and he felt something inside of himself unravel.

“I… This.” He motioned elegantly to the space between them. “I came with the hope of…” he licked his lips, “with the aim of… I came to apologize. My lifestyle is my burden. I never should have drawn you into it and expected you to simply accept that I… you see Gregory, when it comes to my work, you must understand. I have no choice. And when it comes to _this_ -”

“You always have a choice.”

“Yes, you’ve said that before, quite recently in fact. And while from your perspective, I can see -”

“You’re standing here. Not in your office. Not at the club, or in your cavernous bloody house, or in your car racing to Downing Street. Here. No driver, no umbrella. Have I got it right so far?”

“Well, yes. However -”

“And _this_ ,” he imitated Mycroft’s gesture, with rather more force, “is not something you apologize for. This,” he stepped forward, rapidly closing the distance between them, “this, Mycroft Holmes, is a relationship. There are long nights and work demands, and scotch and complicated family and rows. There is no protection from the storm. We weather it together, or we don’t. I’ve been married, I’ve been divorced. I’m a father and a police officer and I’ve never wanted the trouble of dating another man. Yet here I am, three glasses in over fear of losing you.” As he paused to take a breathe, weary eyes searched his.

Abandoning his half full glass on the table behind him, Mycroft closed his eyes, unwilling to witness the potential humiliation that would result if he had miscalculated. Leaning forward the spare few inches left between them, his lips carefully grazed those of the DI. Before he could pull away, a hand twisted into his damp jacket lapel and he heard the sound of a second glass being put down.

“Tell me now, because I already have one Holmes wasting my time. My, do you really want to be in this with me?”

“Yes,” he breathed back, barely audible over the growing crash of rain against the windows. Greg’s mouth met his again, and he was being pulled slowly out of the room, pivoted around the doorway, and maneuvered backward down the hall without once losing the sensation of full lips pressing gently, nipping lightly against his own.

He felt himself being turned again as they entered the small bedroom.

“You’re sure?” The inquiry was directed against his lips.

“Yes,” Mycroft responded, surprised by his own lack of doubt.

One of Greg’s hands still gripping his jacket, the other slipped to his hip, shoving him against the wall with startling force.

“Say it. I need to hear you say it.”

“I want to be in.”

“Good,” came the low growl in his ear. “So do I…”

* * *

His jacket, waistcoat, and necktie had been thrown to the floor before Mycroft fully processed what was happening. Despite Greg’s rather obvious intentions, his brain had momentarily short-circuited at the realization that he was being undressed by another man for the first time in his life. _Excepting medical professionals, of course. (A fact which is equally obvious and irrelevant at the moment, Dear Brother.)_

“Do shut up.”

“Haven’t made a sound,” the detective answered, shoving Mycroft’s shirt from his shoulders and dropping with surprising ease to his knees on the faded carpet. “Though in a few minutes, you won’t be able to say the same…” he added casually, nimble fingers already removing an ostrich leather belt. _Is he bloody joking with this?_

Mycroft released a tense breath as his head hit the wall behind him, eyes closing at the sensation of a steady hand pressing unabashedly against his mounting erection while impatiently lowering the zipper on his trousers… trousers that were now at his ankles, laces of his imported Italian shoes loosening…

_(Well, I’m glad it was worth skipping the pastries after lunch.) I thought I told you to be quiet. (No, Mycroft, you told you to be quiet. We both know it isn’t me that’s truly bothering you, is it?) Leave, Sherlock. (Why would I leave when it’s just getting interesting. So what is it? Does the idea of sex alarm you, Big Brother?) If you absolutely must know - no. Sex is not the problem. If you’ll recall, I’m not the Holmes referred to as “The Virgin,” now, am I? No, Sherlock, sex has been a regular occurrence in my life - (Yes, remind me how that regularity was maintained?) There is nothing wrong with consenting adults engaging in brief sexual encounters to achieve - (One night stands, Mycroft. They’re called one night stands.) So bloody what? What is your point? (These ‘encounters’ seem to have come to a full stop immediately following your first evening home from hospital. If it’s not the sex that concerns you in your current situation - one you’ve been most terribly neglecting - then WHAT IS IT?)_

“It’s intimacy,” he mumbled through gritted teeth.

“It’d better be,” Lestrade countered, rising to his feet. “I didn’t spend decades ignoring the desire to climb into bed with a man just to throw it away on some one night stand. Oh...” he tilted his head up slightly, locking their eyes, “oh, I see...”

Mycroft felt the sudden flush creep over the skin on his face, his neck, his chest, and it burned hotter at the realization that it was all visible as he was now, somehow, clad only in a thin pair of plum colored silk pants that left nothing to the imagination. And despite his anxiety, that nothing was rather substantial at the moment. Mycroft swallowed in an unsuccessful attempt to gain control of the situation - or at least of himself.

“You’re still dressed.”

“Nothing gets past you,” Greg teased, grinning as he tossed his jersey to the floor. “If you ever want to trade in all that power and wealth for a thankless job and a sad little flat, you’d likely make a good detective. You’d have to pass the psych first, of course…”

Mycroft smiled gratefully, wondering how someone so seemingly ordinary could know exactly what to say.

“This thing... you and me? Yeah, it’s intimacy, alright. But tonight,” he drew close enough to inhale the lingering scent of damp cotton that clung to a long, freckled neck, then, without warning, rolled his hips hard against his partner’s, relishing the pleasure-infused gasp escaping into the narrow space between them, “tonight is also about sex.” 

 

A warm breath on his jaw; the scent of whiskey and London flooding his senses. An insistent tugging at the waistband of his pants, drawing him forward. And then he was on his back on the worn duvet - no satin, no Egyptian cotton, no discernible threadcount. The sound of his own arrogance muffled by the tongue tracing his ear. Scraping wood. _A drawer opening_. One hand sliding up his inner thigh, setting the fine hair on end. An angled wrist nudging his legs further apart.

“Gregory.”

Lips closing firmly over his carotid, tongue now pressed under his chin, against his pulse. Teeth grazing down, down, closing over his clavicle.

“You should know… I… am always the…”

A growl vibrating against his shoulder, giving way to a devilish smile.

“You may be the most powerful man in Britain,” Lestrade paused, laving his tongue against a fiercely peaked nipple, “but for once, lie back and try _not_ to think of England?”

He sucked hard, pressing his free hand to the other sharp pink bud, expertly timing the rotation of fingertips and tongue until a reluctant, shuddering breath was released beneath him. Right hand slipping further up the leg of impossibly posh shorts. Mycroft felt a warm, dry knuckle drag gently along the underside of his increasingly tight sac.

“Perhaps, though, it might be more appropriate if I were the one to…” he poured out in a rush, clearly far closer to alarmed than not. “That is, you haven’t done… this… before.”

“Just because I haven’t been with a man,” Greg returned in a maddeningly smug tone, stroking the slick tip of his middle finger over Mycroft’s instinctively clenching entrance, “doesn’t mean I’ve never done this before.” His left hand ran slowly over Mycroft’s abdomen, through the dark auburn hair on his chest, until his thumb brushed lovingly across his lower lip. “I know you bloody Holmeses have your hangups over control or whatever it is. But My.” A soft kiss; the taste of stale coffee layered with scotch. “Trust me.”

A strong tongue reached up, drew him down. Lestrade pushed forward slowly, slowly, breaching highly guarded territory. Drawing a solitary digit in and out, focusing on the lips devouring his, the hard-soft body moving beneath his own, the overwhelming desire to destroy this man just to have the pleasure of putting him back together, piece by piece, until he was a strong as he pretended to be.

A faint snapping sound; a brief pause; a withdrawal. Then the renewed request, cool and wet, and thighs tensing fiercely in response. The words sounded huskier now as soft lips curled gently around his ear.

“You’ve got to relax, My.”

“Easy for you to say, my dear detective,” he quipped in a failed attempt to veil the quiver in his voice. “You’re not the one being _compromised._ ”

“S’that what I’m doing to you?”

“To be fair, you are still mostly dressed, whereas I…”

Pushing up on his arms and lingering a moment above oddly innocent pools of crystal blue, Greg slid off the side of the bed, standing with his eyes fixed on the man for whom he was prepared to dramatically rewrite his public identity. Holding the first two fingers of his right hand slightly aloft, he released the buckle on his belt - the chink of the metal deliciously vulgar in the silent room - and quickly removed all that was left between them, returning to his prior position with the sneaking suspicion…

“You said I’d never done this before,” lips moving against a long neck, fingers circling, pushing forward, “that I’d never been with a man,” mouth trailing across the hot flesh of a chest that rarely sees the light of day, “and of course you were right. But it’s not just me, is it…” drawn out kissing up the other side of his neck, jaw, fingers pushing in past one barrier, waiting, past a second, “you’ve never done _this_ before, have you… been on this side of things?”

In and out, in and out, scissor, curl, withdraw, deeper deeper deeper. Rhythmic breath matching the heat-pressure-pulsing of an extremely aroused officer against his upper thigh. In, in, scissor-curl, withdraw. Deeper deeper. Snap, pause. A new request, a deep breath. Pushing forward, more slowly this time. A prolonged exhale.

“Are you afraid?”

A negative response through breathing that was coming thicker now.

“Well I am.”

Long-fingers trailing up a tanned spine. In, in… in. Withdraw. In, in, scissor, deeper.

“We both stand to lose something tonight, you know. Something we can’t get back.” Deeper, scissor, withdraw. Scissor, in, in, in. “We’re all each other’s got, after this.”

A hand gripping his back, a neck craning to press moist lips to his shoulder.

“So tell me, really, My. Are you afraid?”

Chestnut irises staring down, wide, honest, and open.

“No.”

Greg smiled. “Liar.”

Lips tangling, tongues vying for dominance. Out, in, scissor, curl. Withdraw. Shifting hips. Snap, pause.

The final request. Another arm wrapping around a slightly bronzed back.

One hand braced above Mycroft’s shoulder, Greg gripped his absolutely aching cock with the other, suddenly wondering how he’d lasted so long like this. Granting himself a few firm strokes, his attempt to ease his own tension failed as he caught sight of the pool of pre-cum already formed on his partner’s stomach. He aligned himself with the warm, dark place that he would be the first person to enter  - _maybe the only person,_ he realized with unparalleled satisfaction - and pressed forward slowly slowly slowly, relishing the sight of his own body disappearing into his lover’s.

Even, painfully well-controlled huffs of breath arose from Mycroft’s throat, eyes closed tightly against the welcome intrusion. Mental drawbridge temporarily lowered, he admitted to himself that he’d taken every opportunity over the past weeks to deduce the exact proportions of his potential paramour. _(Come off it, that’s pretentious even for you.) Fine… boyfriend._ And now that those proportions were driving ever deeper into him, it was clear that he had underestimated; he had never been so pleased to be wrong.

Fully seated, Greg placed his arm along Mycroft’s side, resting his weight on it as his forehead fell against the other’s jaw. For all his previous experience, this was almost too much. It wasn’t only the tight, hot muscles surrounding him, pulsing, enveloping every inch of him… it was the feeling of stubble against his skin, the broad chest beneath his own… the knowledge that he was falling in love…

Hands beginning to trace his shoulder blades, hips stirring below him. He lifted his chest, exhaled, and began to move.

Hips pulling back. Withdraw. Pressing forward. Careful, slow. Back, forward, back, forward. A relieved sigh matched by a hiss-moan. Back, forward, back back, forward. In, deeper, out out, in in in. A hum of satisfaction; not nearly enough. Withdraw, press, in in in, out out, in. Increasing the pace. Deeper, deeper, withdraw, return. In in, pulling back, back, almost completely out. A whimper of protest from below, a sound he didn’t know the man could make. That was it; that was what he wanted. What no one else would have: Mycroft Holmes, begging.

Faster now, faster, his back arching, in, out, in, out, in in in, out, in in out in out in out, legs drawing up along his sides and

“Fuck!” A pale neck arching up up, knees gripping his sides, in out out in in deeper deeper… “Fuck… fuuuuuck!”

“Yes, Christ,” body straightening, hands gripping his waist, watching as his back arches toward the ceiling, harder harder harder…

“Fuck… fuck… me… Greg!”

“Oh yes…” faster, harder, driving him down down down into the sheets, nails digging into hips, deeper deeper, rhythm faltering, losing control, “oh Jesus, YES!”

“Now NOW fuck Greg NOW!”

Both backs arching, eyes clenched shut, one two three four -

“FUUUUCKKKK!”

Collapsing in a tangle of limbs and sweat. Minutes pass to the sound of ragged breathing. The rain had stopped, but neither noticed. It didn’t matter now.

Mycroft felt the mattress shift, heard footsteps leave the room, retreat down the hall. He granted himself the uncharacteristically trusting luxury of lying, exposed, with his eyes shut, until he was interrupted by a warm flannel being placed on his stomach. A stomach which he now realized had been on full display for an alarming amount of time. After wiping himself down and setting the cloth aside (“just drop it on the floor”), he drew the sheet up to his chest.

“Really, My, you’re not as subtle as you think.” A strong hand slid beneath the thin cover, and he flinched as the detective’s palm traced the curve of his body. “None of that, now. And no crash dieting, either. You might’ve noticed that these,” the DI trailed the back of his hand over what must’ve been rather bruised love handles, “turned out to be rather useful this evening.”

Greg rolled toward the wall, plugging in the mobile on the nightstand, then glanced back over his shoulder and smiled.

“You’re not leaving, so don’t bother thinking up excuses.” A tender kiss. “Get some sleep, My.” He turned back onto his side and switched off the lamp. “Oh,” he added to the darkness, “and Anthea will have your briefcase and a clean suit here by 6:00am, so don’t worry about what you’ll wear tomorrow.”

Following an impressed hum, a soft hand grazed over Greg’s back, over his ribcage, down his chest, his abdomen. Fingers played across his hip for a moment, then slid lower.

“Actually, I’m rather more concerned about what I might slip into… tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking it out with me, lovely darlings that you are! It's been a crazy year <3


End file.
